


we are the weirdos, mister.

by basementmixtape



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King, The Craft (1996)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Bisexual Richie Tozier, Bisexual Stan Uris, Boys Kissing, Canon Typical Violence, Dark Magic, Drug Use, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Halloween, M/M, Magic, Self-Indulgent, Shenanigans, Stan Uris and Richie Tozier are a Match Made In Hell, Stozier, The Craft, The Craft AU, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Witchcraft, Witches, bad boy richie, canon typical language, dark themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2020-11-23 19:28:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20894906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basementmixtape/pseuds/basementmixtape
Summary: "I'm Stan." There's a sharp pause, Richie's lips curling. He smiles like the fucking devil."We know who you are."-Stan doesn’t know what his expectations starting out at a new school might be, but he’s absolutely certain befriending a coven of wannabe witches isn’t at the top of the list.The Craft AU





	1. the stranger

**Author's Note:**

> You do not have to watch The Craft to understand this fic! All information about it is adequately explained. This fic will not follow the plot of the movie exactly. The characters are amalgamations of movie characters and book characters, two people combined into one. Richie is Nancy, Stan is Sarah, Bev is Bonnie, and Mike is Rochelle. 
> 
> This is my festive October project :) should have frequent, short updates. 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: graphic violence, self harm, past suicide attempts, homophobia/homophobic language, suicidal ideation, death (no one all that important but still, death).

_ <strike>“Now is the time. This is the hour. </strike> _   
_ <strike>Ours is the magic. Ours is the power.”</strike> _

Derry isn't like the other towns he's lived in. There's an undercurrent to it, something dark and unknowable, the trees feel like they have eyes, the streets breathing under his feet, deep enough to feel it, shallow enough that no one else seems to notice. He's always been sensitive to things like that, the cursed painting in his father's office sent goosebumps down his spine, he knew there was something wrong with it, a feeling that had been proven by the slick blood behind it when his dad peeled it off the wall. They had left it in the attic, staring with living eyes and gathering dust.

He watches the houses whip past the window, blurs of colour behind glass. Driving in a car never feels real to him, these aren't things he's seeing, he isn't there, not really, it's all a video playback, like some elaborate game. Sometimes, when his dad lets him roll down the window, when the air is kissed warm by summer's gentle breath, he feels alive, he feels present and whole. The feeling is always fleeting, and now, he aches for it.

He glances at his father, he has a hard set to his jaw, intent, even after hours rolling through sleeping cities. They always leave early on road trips, his father dragging him out of bed at three in the morning, pillows and blankets in hand, the car already full. He likes to listen to the radio and watch the sun rise over the sharp horizon, letting Stan sleep through the first few hours, the dotted lines burning themselves into the backs of his eyelids. It seems lonely to him, and Stan is an expert on loneliness.

"It's just ahead." His father's voice is harsh in the still air, it feels like the alarm clock at the end of a strange dream, that feeling of edgy discomfort clinging to him. The clocks ticking backwards, his skin peeling off in his hands, something horrifying is happening to him, but his dad just speaks with a voice like a gunshot. Ragged and all consuming. He doesn't even notice he broke something, he just smiles and squints into the sunlight. "Are you excited?" He shrugs.

"Nothing could be worse than Atlanta." The city flashes through him, the Georgia sunlight, the taste of warm lemonade on his tongue, the sticky feeling of strawberries, a sunlit childhood, with a dark stain spread over it. His mother is dead. It happened six months ago. "No, I'm not excited." Maybe that's just something people say to each other, something fathers are supposed to ask their sons when they move to a different state. In any case, his dad doesn't look impressed.

"This will be good for us. A fresh start." Stan searches for words that might bridge the growing distance between them, fixates on a scratch on the car window, the world a green and grey blur behind it. He wonders when this had happened, when he had lost his father the same way he lost his mother. It feels like a nightmare, the emptiness in his eyes when they see each other, the small talk is suffocating, just like everything in this new town.

He's silent until they pull up to the new house.

It's too big, bigger than their old one, more emptiness they have to fill. He feels his mother's absence like a physical thing, a void between them, they don't talk about her anymore, the same way they don't talk about the twinned scars on his wrists. He aches for her the way he aches to feel alive, a darkness spreading through his chest like poison through veins. The house feels like a gaping cavern, the maw of a disgusting beast, arches and soft lines like pointed teeth, tearing at him. The entire place like the town, dark and dreary and cursed as hell.

"Isn't it beautiful, Stanley?"

"Yeah, beautiful." He whispers. “I’m going to start unpacking.” He brushes past his father, the distance between them so vast now it’s almost as though they‘re on different planets, no longer ships passing across separate oceans, they are as distant as the spaces between stars.

His bedroom is full of boxes, with large, wide windows and a door into the backyard. If his mother was still alive she would fill the barren boxes outside the house with every flower she could get her hands on, she was made of natural things, made to grow and bloom like every flower she tended. He had never seen something she planted die, it was her own, special kind of magic, a strange and beautiful fact of life. She was gentle, and kind.

He hears a door creak open, and a voice, unfamiliar, thick and heavy, like a smokers cough.

“I found this out back.” A man, bearded and dirty, and holding a writhing snake. “Do you want it?”

He stumbles backwards, a strangled scream rising in his throat, he trips over one of the boxes, crawling backwards with his hands. Images flash through his mind, this stranger could kill him, hurt him, they would find his body in here, among all of his boxes of meaningless things, and this man, with snake in fist, laughing and laughing and laughing.

“No! I don’t want it, get out, get out now-” He’s shrieking, it’s pathetic, he’s pathetic, why is he so pathetic? 

“Relax.” The man says it like a command, he reeks of piss and liquor, the dirty scent of the street clinging to his dirt smeared clothes. “What’s the matter with you? Just relax.” Panic is rising like bile in his throat.

“Get out!” He says again, steadier, less hysterical this time. The man stiffens, stepping closer.

“Don’t you want it?” The snake, held toward him the way a child holds a shared toy, reverently. He looks at Stan’s blank face, and for a moment, he wishes he had screamed for his father. He grabs a bat from his pile of things, the windows snapping open and shut all around them.

“Get out.” He says again, this time, he swings at him.

The bat connects, and the man flees.


	2. the boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re a walking contradiction  
Cute with such conviction  
But dark as a devil who walks  
And as loyal as a stalker who stalks”  
-Beautifully Unconventional, Wolf Alice

“You could wait. You know, I mean just until you get a school uniform. You don't have to go now."

He stares at the imposing school in front of him, it's a catholic school, why his Jewish father enrolled him there is a complete mystery. It's probably the only school within ten miles of their new house, an option made appealing my circumstance alone. It's all tan brick, a cross burning in the sky above it, the sunlight hot and bright on the other teenagers. They're skating and smoking and laughing, all in identical uniforms. Green plaid skirts or trousers, with a black blazer, a green tie, and a white button up. Stan's in a sensible sweater, black trousers, and a thin, collared shirt, his yarmulke pinned to his curls.

This is going to be a bad day.

"I can't stay home and watch daytime tv for the rest of my life. Don't bother picking me up, I'm walking home." He says, missing his father's response, he's already out of the car, approaching the school, his body heavy as lead. It has a fading elegance to it, graceful buildings with graffiti stained walls, it reeks of decay, like everything else in Derry.

He knows people are watching him, how could they not be? A boy out of uniform, a Jew no less. He probably disgusts them. He disgusts most people, they can't see past the exterior, past the hatred that marks him as something separate. Other. He's used to being alone, it's like a long-healed wound, a broken bone they had set wrong. When the weather is shit, or the air is too humid, he feels shadows of the agony again, faint whispers of a forgotten pain. Being lonely is very different from being alone, he learned that eating lunch in dark hallway corners, watching the world slip past with thick white bandages around his wrists. His mother had been the one who found him when he did it, sometimes he still remembers her screams, and wonders if she would still be alive if he hadn't slit his own wrists at sixteen and a half.

He spots a boy, tall, with dark curls, uniform worn carelessly, a long silver chain around his neck with a cross on the end of it, the crowd parting around him like he has some kind of horrific disease.

"Faggot." Someone spits when he walks past, not at Stan, at the boy, who sticks his tongue out, watching him recoil in disgust. He has eyeliner on, Stan realizes numbly. His shirt is untucked, black rimmed glasses with thick lenses and wire frames hiding his eyes. Stan can still tell they're green, a startling, vivid emerald that he shouldn't have been able to see from that far away. The boy's lips curl. He smiles like the fucking devil.

He loses the boy in the crowd, but that smile stays with him all morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stan, staring at richie: boy, i hope this doesn’t awaken anything in me


	3. the class

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I get in trouble cause I speak my mind  
Sometimes I like it when I make you cry”  
-That’s Right, Cage the Elephant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no one bully me about chapter length i’m going with each scene getting its own chapter because i’m a lazy bitch and i exist only for validation on the internet.

He sees him again in biology.

He's snapping gum between his teeth, his nails are painted black, he smells like cigarettes and something earthier, a sweetness clinging to the air. Sage. Stan's mother used to burn it, she said she was cleansing the house, a strange light in her eye when she did it, her eyes were startlingly green, like his, like that boy's, like the eyes of the boy with dark skin who sits beside him.

"Hey, would it be alright if I sat with you? She said I need to find a table for lab partners." He gestures vaguely toward the teacher behind him. The boy glares at him so violently he almost feels it like a physical thing, the tip of a knife digging into his throat, sharp and fresh and deadly. Stan turns away before the girl beside him, all red hair and pale green eyes, gets a chance to speak.

He ignores her, sitting with the slightly less intriguing strangers instead.

The pretty boy is a fucking asshole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’ll probably post one more today because this one hardly counts it took like ten minutes lmaooo


	4. the girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yes, I know who you remind me of  
A girl I think I used to know  
Yes, I'd see her when the day got colder  
On those days when it felt like snow”  
-Catch, The Cure

Stan's lock is stuck, he knows this for a fact. He isn't an idiot, he knows how they work, he's just struggling, it's sticking.

"Need a hand?" He glances over his shoulder, a girl with neat brown hair smiles at him. She's shorter than Stan by a few inches, she has icy eyes, a frigid blue.

"Yeah, actually, I think it's stuck." The girl leans close to him, doing something with her fingers, the lock opening with an easy tug. She stays in his space, intent blue eyes soft and wide, swallowing him whole. She's cute.

"I'm Ilene, you're new, right?" Stan gestures to his outfit, swallowing a bitter laugh.

"What do you think? I'm Stan, by the way."

"I know, we had French together this morning." She touches his shoulder, just a fleeting knock of her hand, but with girls, things like that are basically flares, signals he hardly knew how to pick up on. He’d only had one girlfriend before, Patricia from the summer in Seattle two years before, it had been a fleeting thing. Sometimes he still tasted her strawberry kisses when he heard a Beatles song, or the sun cut through the rain. "You don't remember?"

"There were a lot of idiots in that room." He says dully, she gives a tight smile.

"Sorry about them. At least those assholes weren't there." She gestures vaguely over his shoulder, at the cruel boy with the black curls. The other two are with him, a good looking black boy, and a tiny wraith of a girl with fiery hair. "There's something wrong with them."

Stan tries to keep his voice disinterested, frigid as snow. "What are you talking about?"

"He," She points at the one that glared like he could kill someone with a glance. "Is a faggot. There's that freak beside him too, the red head. She's the biggest slut in the school, and she's covered in scars, like, from cutting herself. Anyway, they're... nah, never mind." He leans closer.

"What?" He's almost painfully curious. "What is it?" She flushes, a deep crimson.

"It sounds stupid, alright? People say things about them. Strange things." It feels like all of the pieces are coming together, the questions he has about them, the strangers with the green eyes.

"What kinds of things?" Her voice drops into a whisper, she glances at him almost fearfully.

"That they're witches." The feeling of sharp dread that cuts through him is embarrassing, all the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, like he'd been electrocuted.

"_Witches_?"

"That's what people say." She pauses, grabbing his arm over his sweater, her nails are the colour of blood. "What are you doing after school?"

"Nothing." He raises an eyebrow. "Why?"

"I'm busy, cheer practice. You can come out and watch," She bites her bottom lip, eyelashes fluttering. "If you want."

"Cheer practice." He says, trying to keep a mocking edge out of his voice. "That is _so_ tempting." She peers up at him, her blue eyes are icy, she has lipstick on, the same colour as her nails. Fresh blood.

The bell rings with a deafening, electrical buzzing, and the moment shatters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i should probably space out updates more but tbh i couldnt care less. more richie will appear in the next chapter, which should be posted tomorrow after i rewatch heathers lmao. thnx for reading!


	5. the cheerleader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sometimes it scares me how much I think about  
Going for a walk and never coming home  
And how willing I am to leave everything I have  
And everyone I know”  
-You Were A Home That I Wanted To Grow Up In, Flatsound

"Looking for someone?" A rough voice speaks beside him, low and teasing. It sounds like honey, deep and rich and sweet as sugar. The boy from the hallway, from biology, the boy with the bright green eyes and wild black curls. The devil. The witch. As out of place on this football field as a lit match in a library.

The girl with the red hair speaks, her voice hissing and crackling like fire. "Some of these cheerleading bitches make their boyfriends come watch them practice... as if it's interesting."

"Like your little girlfriend, Ilene Tucker." There's a mischievous brightness to his eyes, one that makes Stan's stomach twist. He doesn't know why he's hyper aware of him, he just can't seem to see anything but his pale skin, the leather and silver wrapped around his throat, the cross on his chest. He had always been drawn to haunted things, the painting in the attic, the scrap of cloth from one of his dead mother’s dresses; the boy is another enchanted object, another oddity with spirits cling to him, with skin like paper and eyes like emerald fire.

"She's not my girlfriend," He glares up at the boy, hating that he's so much taller, hating that he's so goddamn pretty. He shouldn't look like that, all sharp cheekbones and full lips, skin pale and freckled. It doesn't seem fair that an asshole gets to look like that.

"Richie's sorry about what happened in biology," The other boy, the one with dark skin and a quiet smile speaks, his voice is heavy and rich. He has a gentleness to his energy, it carries on his voice like a stain on white fabric. "He's mean to everybody, don't take it personally."

"You're Richie?" The boy who'd haunted him all day has a name, it doesn’t suit him, he should be called something grand and sweeping and European, something mysterious and strange, maybe French. Stan feels like an idiot for even thinking it.

"He's Richie, I'm Beverly, and that's Mike." Beverly says.

"I'm Stan." There's a cruel smile in the sharp pause, Richie's lips curling, his emerald eyes hard as diamond.

"We know who you are." His voice is fucking chilling, dark and thick, syrup instead of honey now. The scent of sage is stronger up close, sage, candle wax, and cigarettes. He's got one between his fingers, the black nail polish chipped, nails bitten short, his cuticles red and bloody. He's rotten on the inside, just like everything else in this town. Stan feels heavy all of a sudden, an icy feeling spreading through his chest. "You wanna go for coffee?"

Something about this boy is making all the skin on his body break out into goosebumps, there's something fundamentally wrong with him, something that almost isn't human, he can feel it. He doesn't know how, but he has to get away from them. Now.

"No, I can't, I gotta get home. My dad's waiting for me." Richie's green eyes narrow, and suddenly it's like the entire world has fallen away, and it's just the two of them. Maybe this is what it's supposed to feel like with girls, maybe Stan really is as fucked up as the scars on his wrists suggest.

"You can make something up. Mike's ditching practice.” He sucks in a tired breath, grey smoke drifting between crooked teeth and pink lips. “She comes on to anything with a dick, Stan." Stan glances at the girl on the field, her curled brown hair, her green uniform, at Richie, with his dangerous magnetism and hypnotic eyes.

"I'm not watching her." He says again, glaring defiantly up at the other boy, who raises an eyebrow and grins. His smile is all wrong, his teeth too pointed, his eyes dead. There's something wrong with this town. There's something very wrong with this town.

Then it cracks, and suddenly he's just a boy, a boy with a normal smile, and messy curls, and soft, murky green eyes. Stan hopes he'd imagined the vivid emerald. He's a real person all of a sudden, one with very pretty green and brown eyes, shot through with yellow.

"She spreads disease. I speak from personal experience, trust me." He grins, bright and impish, spinning toward the cheerleaders. "Come on, Ilene! Legs straight, let me see that smile, baby!" She fumbles and almost falls, and Stan snorts, she looks like she's turning red, glaring at Richie, who looks totally at ease. It’s strange seeing him relax, it’s like seeing a wolf in a cage, the wildness in him subdued. "She's a bitch, come on."

He starts walking, and Stan swallows hard, considering all of his options. Beverly stops mid stride on the sidewalk, her pale green eyes pouring into his. They aren't like Richie's, they're like springtime, like clean air and mint leaves.

"You're coming, right?" He bites his bottom lip, tugging it between his teeth.

"Where are we going?"

"Shopping." She beams, and it's pretty, but it doesn't effect him the way Richie's smile did. His was wide, a goofy grin that spread over his cheeks, it was cute.

"I don't have any money." He says faintly.

Richie eyes are murky, but his smile is devilish. He raises a hand, it's covered in heavy metal rings."We get a five-finger discount." _Stan's father is going to murder him.   
_

"Where did you live before Derry?" Mike asks him as they walk, a frown flies to his lips.

"Atlanta, Georgia."

"Why'd you move?" Mike asks, expression all sweet and sympathetic all of a sudden, like he's been through it too. Maybe he has, maybe everyone in the world has been through what Stan’s going through, maybe they all understand, maybe it’s a secret club he wasn’t allowed to be a part of because he’s broken on the inside, something irreparable shattered inside of him. It would be comforting to feel less alone.

"'Cause it sucks, and my dad wanted to." Half a lie, he bites his lip again, chin jutting forward.

"It sucks here too." Mike says, kicking at a rock on the road. They walk beside a thick hedge, the branches reaching for them like grasping hands. Stan brushes one aside, his sweater catching on it for a second, sleeve pulling up. He feels an icy hand on his wrist, and suddenly, all he can see are Richie's eyes again, huge, golden and green.

"What's up with that?" He runs a fingertip over the ugly red gash of a scar on his pale wrist. Stan is shaking, he can feel it. He tries to keep his voice level, even.

"I slit my wrists." He focuses on his face, all the pale empty spaces between makeup and freckles. Richie's focus is on his wrist, a gentle hand on his scar. His eyes flit up to meet his again, and all he can see is him. He's being swallowed whole by this boy with bottomless eyes and a fucking _evil_ mouth.

"Sorry." He doesn't sound sorry at all.

"What'd you do it with?" Beverly asks, her eyes trained on his arms.

"A kitchen knife." Stan says, voice even, surprisingly calm considering the way his hands are shaking.

"You even did it the right way." She sounds impressed, and in a sick way, he's proud she approves. The cuts are vertical, up and down on his forearm, from wrist to elbow, a single red line for each arm. Maybe the wrong way is horizontal, based on the way she's running her thumb over her own, perfectly clean wrist.

"Punk rock," Richie laughs. "Let's go."

"The right way?" Mike whispers to Bev heatedly. "How do you even know the right way?"

"Shut up, Mike." Bev hisses.

"Well, how do you know?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im actually planning on writing for ‘who you gonna call?’ tonight so might not update again tomorrow idk (my main stozier fic, i love her she’s a pretty basic it/st crossover fic), im also going to a corn maze with my girlfriend so… lesbian rights babey


	6. the car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sometimes I think I'm a killer  
Scared you in your house  
Even scared myself by talking  
About Dahmer on your couch”  
-Killer, Phoebe Bridgers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update but not really lmao this ones like twice as long as the other chapters   
gore warning?? i cut out a lot of the shit i originally wrote but still , i also barely edited this so , enjoy my pile of garbage

They slip into a strange shop, it's lit up in shades of red and gold, shelves of candles, crystals, and spell books cover every wall, tapestries and patterned rugs hide the floor. It smells like incense, the perfume thick and heady on the warm air. Richie is stuck to his side, his black curls shining in the dim red light. He's beautiful, Stan realizes, a thick knot tying itself inside his stomach. Really, truly, completely beautiful. What a stupid thing to notice.

"Put this in your bag." He hisses, pushing a book into his hands.

"No." Stan whispers firmly, sighing when Richie rolls his eyes.

"Everything in nature steals you know. Big animals steal from little ones." He's walking backwards, careless and impossibly cool. "It's the circle of life, sweetheart." Revulsion shoots through him, venom on his tongue.

"They steal for survival.” He studies the book closer, a blood red, leather bound journal with strange markings all over the cover. It's empty on the inside. "Besides, I already have a diary."

"This is different. You put spells and power thoughts in it," He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, like he's an idiot or something for not knowing. "Then, you don't let anyone else read it, ever. Except maybe us." He looks around the shop, shoving the book into the torn open lining of his oversized jacket.

"You guys are really into all this?" He knew the rumours of witchcraft were true the moment he saw them, the burning eyes, the steady heat in his veins every time he saw them. What can it be if not magic? He can already feel himself falling into this stranger with strange eyes, not a crush, something stronger, deeper.

Richie's expression lights up like the sky on the Fourth of July, it's almost mesmerizing to watch. He's ridiculously beautiful. Stan has never been all that interested in boys, he's aware of them, painfully aware sometimes, in Richie's case at least, but he’s never loved a boy, never wanted to kiss a boy until he was breathless and light enough to float away. He'd only ever gotten that helium feeling, weak in the knees, head full of static feeling from girls, this is uncharted territory. This boy is going to be the death of him, drowning in unfamiliar waters.

"Sort of, we're not very good at it yet." He smiles, and Stan feels his bottle green eyes are staring directly through him, like he's made of glass, made of cellophane. He’s as transparent as the air. "We need things from this lovely establishment to get better, come on, Stanny." He holds a slim book between pale fingers, bound in crisp black leather, words embossed on the cover in silvery text. _The Craft._ "This'll teach you anything you need to know, candles, spellwork, curses, all kinds of shit, all in this beautiful little book." He pushes it against his chest, Stan sliding it in his bag without a second thought, absolutely transfixed. "Take the power for yourself, I can smell it on you, like ozone, like electricity. You're powerful under all the layers of nerd, Stanley. You have so much potential." He looks like a wild thing, his eyes are getting greener by the second, and Stan knows what he means about power, because it's rolling off of Richie in waves. He can taste it, but it isnt electric, it's hot, and dry, like a summer baked in desert sun, if heat had a flavour, it would be the power Richie holds under his skin.

"What does that even mean?"

"Come on, don't tell me you haven't felt it." He's being pulled out of the store, the thought of paying doesn’t even cross his mind. "Strange things happen when you want them to, right?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." He lies, the image of the man, the windows opening and closing, the boxes rising with his hands when he swung that bat.

"Liar." Richie pulled him down through to the street, Mike and Bev in tow. "You know, I don't know if they tell you this at Temple, but liars go to hell, Stanley."

"Fuck off." He spits, dodging past the homeless people in the street, a familiar voice making his blood run cold.

"Hey, I know you!" He turns, and the man is there again, his filthy beard and his dirty clothes and the stench of piss and bile. "I have another snake for you, sweetheart." His skin is crawling, panic clawing up his throat, he sprints across the road, narrowly avoiding a truck. The homeless man ambles after him, slower, but so fucking terrifying, he looks like he lost a fight, Stan had done that to him, blackened the side of his bald head, left that bloody gash on the back of skull. "I had a dream about you!" The man cries, stepping into traffic.

_God. Let him die, let a car run him down, let him leave me the fuck alone._

"In my dream, you were dead."

His eyes are blue.  
  


His eyes are blue and he's so close now Stan can make out the individual drops of blood on his stained white shirt.

_Run him down._

A car swerves, and there's a sickening crunch, and tires screeching, and a sound so distinctly wet that bile rises in his throat, his chest tight and his lungs stiff. The car's tire had nearly carved him in half, the man stares with sightless eyes from the street, sightless blue eyes, his insides on the outside, a bloody mass of living tissue. He stares numbly at his hands, at the man on the ground gasping for breath, tears streaming down his cheeks, screaming in a horrific, breathless shriek.

"Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen, listen, listen, _listen_-" He coughs, and it's all blood. Stan stares in horror, his heart pounding a heavy, manic beat inside his chest. He has to get out of here, get away from this man. He’s only ever seen one thing die in person, it happened in an instant, a little dog crushed to death under the wheels of a taxi, the owner’s agonized, tearful sobs still so fresh in his mind he can almost hear them.

This man is dying right in front of him, like that dog in the road.

He feels a hand on his arm, a violent, instinctive pull lurches through him, he flinches. It's only Beverly, she's staring at him, green eyes all soft and concerned, he can hardly see her, the image of the man with his blood splattered on the road filling him to the brim. 

"You alright?" He starts moving, letting her gentle hand guide him down a dirt trail, away from the streets of the small town, into a green forest. "It hit him." She says breathlessly. "It hit him. The car hit him, and we made it happen. Oh, my god." His heart almost stops all over again.

"Maybe," Richie says, a strange light in his emerald eyes. "Maybe not."

Beverly shakes her head, voice shifting into something different, full of wonder. "No, definitely. I thought to myself, '_it's gonna hit him_-'"

"I thought it too." Mike says, sounding far too disturbed by his participation in the dark deed.

"Well, I thought it too." Richie swallows hard, Stan watches his Adam's apple bob, transfixed all over again. "But that doesn't mean anything."

"Stan," Mike's voice was deadly soft. "Did you think it?"

"Yeah." He whispers. "I did."

"Well then that's it you guys. Stan's the fourth." He stares at them in confusion, they pull him into a clearing, sitting together on threadbare couches and chairs. "North, south, east, and west. We can make things happen. This is it. This is real."

"Shit." Richie mutters, glaring at him, hand in a tight fist.

"This is really weird." Stan says.

"Well, I mean, he was after you. He was going to hurt you, man. It was not our fault. I mean-"

"Beep Beep, Richie." Bev mutters, Mike's voice cutting through the soft autumn air.

"You guys, maybe he'll really listen now." The air thickens, tension flickering in their shoulders, a strange light crackling to life behind their eyes.

"Who?" Stan asks.

"_Manon_." Richie's eyes are almost glowing, his face shifting, smile turning into something other, something wrong and unnatural. That power, that hot desert sun feeling is ebbing and flowing, whispering over his skin like an ocean tide.

"What's that? God or something?" He has the nerve to laugh, the sound just as cold as everything else about him. It’s sharp enough to cut, loud enough to shatter glass.

"Man invented God, Stanley, this is older than that. Think bigger." He doesn’t know what could be bigger than God, nothing is supposed to have more power than that.

"What, do you worship the Devil?"

"It's like God and the Devil combined. I mean, it's everything. It's-it's the trees; it's the ground; it's the rocks; it's the moon; it's everything."

"So... it's nature?" He groans dramatically, tugging at his dark hair and lighting a cigarette.

"If all this heavenly war shit was like God and the Devil playing football, Manon would be the stadium they played on. He would be the sun that shone down on them, the blood in their veins, the air that they breathed. Manon is the oldest being, the true source of all power." Mike looks uncomfortable, staring at Richie, at the maniacal devotion he has for his false God, his hands clasped like he’s already praying to a being older than religion itself.

“Does stuff like tonight happen to you a lot, Stan?” Mike asks. He thinks of the man, the terrifying stranger with the sightless eyes.

“No, not like that. Other things, though, strange things.” Bev raises an eyebrow, leaning closer.

“Where did you learn it?”

“I didn’t.” He says. “Learn it, I mean. It just happens to me, whether I like it or not.”

“A natural witch.” Richie drawls. “How _impressive_.” He doesn’t sound even remotely impressed, eyes still emerald and inhuman.

“I hate it.” He admits, remembering all the awful things he’s done with the power he didn’t ask for. “It's always getting screwed up. It's like... sometimes I'll--I'll want it to rain, and a pipe will burst in my room and I'll just get flooded.”

“Yeah, right.” Richie scoffs.

“No, really!” He doesn’t know why he needs to convince them, he’s never talked about this before, not with anyone. “Or, I'll want it just to be quiet, and I'll wish for it and wish for it, and then I'll go deaf for three days straight.”

Richie stares at him, and it’s like he’s transparent again, his gaze cutting and cold as hell. “If you can do all that, have you heard of invoking the spirit?” His movements get sharp. Excited, almost.

“No.” His eyes are practically glowing. He stands, raising his arms, a wicked, chilling smile splitting his lips. His eyeliner is smudged on one side, behind his glasses. It makes him look even crazier.

“It's when you call him. Manon.” Stan’s blood runs cold. “It’s like-- It's like you take him into you. It's like he fills you. He takes everything that's gone wrong in your life, and he makes it _all_ better again.” He draws out the word out, voice swinging up and down, dragging like the chains on the damned.

“Nothing can do that, make it all better in an instant.” Richie’s face falls, and his expression turns nasty.

“Maybe not for you.” He leans closer, and Stan can’t take it anymore, the panic Richie causes too much on top of his already hellish day. “Oh, look at that.” Richie laughs, like ice, like a blizzard, like a statue with lungs and punching breath. A sculpture of ice, beautiful, but cold on the inside. “He’s scared.”

“Richie,” Mike scolds, but it’s half-hearted at best, Stan is stumbling backwards into the trees. “We need him.”

The last sound he hears before he rounds the corner is a harsh laugh, and Richie’s voice, sending shivers up his spine. “Like a hole in the head.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> richie:…  
stan: :-)  
richie: …  
richie: FIRST OF ALL-


	7. the rumour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Real men keep cool in the face of a fire  
Go down with the ship  
And real men don't eat  
'Cause they're above that, damn it  
Oh, I'm gonna be a real man”
> 
> -Real Men, Mitski

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: kissing without consent, homophobia
> 
> yeah i haven’t updated since october, i have no excuse, i have spent the entire time with my girlfriend and crying over the goldfinch, also having a wicked depressive episode, but my self destructive spiral is irrelevant, enjoy my pile of half-edited garbage. 
> 
> happy hannukah !!

He’s never been one for parties, but Ilene‘s cute, and her blue eyes were almost hypnotic when she pulled him aside in the hallway and asked him to go with her. Now, he’s sitting on the hood of some shitty beater she picked him up in, and she’s looking up at him with her lips painted red and her eyes coated in golden shadow, pink faced and glowing in the pale porch light.

He swallows, peering down at her, she’s got her hand creeping over his, her nails still red, still the colour of fresh blood. She wears blood like an accessory, all he can see when he looks at her, in her red skirt with her red lips and her red nails, is that blood gushing onto the street, the blood that washed the bathroom floor crimson when he cut himself open to see what his bones look like, the seething, steaming flesh of that man carved in half because of Stan’s magic, dead because of him, because of them, because of the witches who insist he’s one of them.

Her red mouth curves into a smile.

“What are you thinking about so intently over there? You look upset.” She’s so pretty, her pale face, her curled brown hair, the rum on her breath. It curls through the air between them, the smell of poison, the smell of liquor and sickly sweet soda.

“Nothing.” He smiles faintly, curling his hand over hers. “Just looking at you, I guess.” Her smile widens, her breath reeks, the closer she gets the more he can smell it, thick and ugly. He wants to get away, he wants to leave her, leave this party, leave all of it to go home and hide, curl up in his bedroom and hate, and hate, and hate. It’s all he seems able to do lately.

“I’d rather you touched me than looked at me.” She grabs his wrist, crawls into his lap, and forces her mouth on his before he can respond.

She’s a lousy kisser, clumsy with drink, her poisonous breath down his throat, her tongue slithering into his mouth, wet with spit and coca-cola and too much white rum. She guides his hand to her chest, opening his hand for him, closing it around her breast with strangely steady hands. She’s getting closer to him somehow, and Stan feels very little beyond panic, and the sudden, overwhelming feeling of wrongness, a surety that this should not be happening, that she just doesn’t fit, he doesn’t either. His skin crawls, his heartbeat climbing.

He closes his hand into a fist, and shoves her away, breathing hard, shaking and on the verge of tears.

“Can we stop?” He can’t look at her, he can’t, and when she touches his shoulder, he flinches.

“You don’t want me?” She doesn’t sound hurt, she sounds angry, furious. She’s got fire in her blue eyes, and something else. Disgust. “What kind of man doesn’t want it?”

“Don’t be mad, please, Ilene.” She forces a smile, eyes still hard.

“Don’t worry,” Her voice is sweet as sugar. “I’m not angry, Stanley.”

Somehow, he doesn’t believe her.

-

“Had a revelatory weekend, did you?” Richie’s at his locker on Monday, arms crossed over his chest, hair a mess of wild, ink-black curls, eyes smudged black and pretty. They’re a hard emerald again, burning Stan’s eyes like the cross on his chest.

“What?” Stan fumbles with the lock for a moment, tugging it open clumsily. He’s tired, he can still taste Ilene’s lipstick in his mouth like chalk, like wax and crayons. He wonders if the tube would melt, if lipstick burns when you set it on fire, he thinks it must, everything burns eventually, if you try hard enough.

“Congratulations, I never would’ve thought.” Richie’s clearly holding back laughter, a vicious smile curling his pink mouth, his cheeks look even paler today, his freckles fainter, his eyes greener than Stan had ever seen them. “I’m proud of you, Stanley.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Stan gives up on his books, turning to glare at Richie.

“Well, she already told everyone, Stanny-Boy.”

“Told everyone what?” He doesn’t have patience for Richie today, for his stupid games, for his idiotic, mysterious demeanour, for his pretty eyes and his _evil_ mouth and his cheekbones, Stan hates his goddamn cheekbones, hates them for being sharp, hates the line of them, hates that they look even better when Richie smiles, hates the dimples underneath them, hates that he notices all these stupid, pointless things about this idiotic boy, this idiotic boy who hates his guts.

“That you’re gay.” Beverly appears like she’s stepped from shadows, like she materializes at will wherever her heart desires.

“I’m not gay.” He rolls his eyes, looking at Richie, no, glaring at Richie. He’s not gay. He’s bisexual.

“Well, maybe she’s trying to save face then, because when one of her friends found out you turned her down…” Bev grabs a book out of his bag, her eyebrows raising.

_The Craft_, the book he stole from that store without thinking.

“Why would she do something like that?” Stan takes the book from her hands, shoving it back into his bag, ignoring Richie, who’s grinning madly beside Bev, green eyes far too bright. “She wouldn’t.”

“Except, she did.” Richie pouts with faux-sympathy, and Stan is suddenly almost irresistibly tempted to punch him in the face. Richie always inspires passion, anger, love, hatred, lust. He’s magic, maybe even literally.

“She said the same things about Richie, when he turned her down.” Bev says absently, taking his copy of _Crime and Punishment_ out of his locker, studying it carefully. She should stop taking shit out of his locker without asking, and he should tell her that, but he can’t find he cares enough to put in the effort.

“I told you she’s a bitch.” Richie uncrossed his arms, he’s still got that stupid chain around his neck, that cross, Stan wonders why he wears it. Richie doesn’t seem very godly.

Stan takes his book from Bev, and slams his locker shut, head spinning, scanning the hall. He doesn’t respond, he doesn’t want Richie to know he’s right, somehow, Richie being right makes it all so much worse. He finds her easily, with her brown hair and her bright eyes and her lips painted red, cheeks pink.

“Ilene!” He marches across the hall, shoving through students, stopping close enough to her she can see him. She has a pack of friends around her, he forces his way past them, looking her in the eyes.

She still looks angry.

“What do you want, faggot?” And even though he knows she thinks it’s not true, even though it’s said to prove a point, even though he shouldn’t feel it, the word feels like a gut-punch when it’s directed at him. He’s reminded why he never came out, why he forces down his crushes on boys, why Richie is so terrifying. This is all he didn’t want. He never wants his sexuality to be used like ammunition against him.

“We both know that isn’t true.” He tells her, and she just shakes her head.

“You said it yourself. You told me last night, all your sinful thoughts, you’re disgusting.” She’s not a very good liar, but she’s saying the words, and they’re enough that strangers are staring at him with vile, hateful eyes.

“Fuck you.” Her blue eyes flash, a brightness fading. She looks guilty. Good.

He shoves his way back to his locker.

Beverly and Richie are gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stan: so, ive been dropping hints that im bisexual  
-smashcut-  
stan, banging pots and pans together in richie’s backyard: IM BISEXUAL! I. AM. BI! I SWING NOT ONE WAY, BUT TWO, I AM NEITHER HOMO NOR HETERO-


	8. the ritual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He cut my arm open, then did the same to his  
The skin parted like petals on blossoming flowers  
We pressed the cuts together, became one and another  
Now we’re blood brothers  
A part of me will always live in you  
I'll love all your demons because  
Now they're my demons too”  
-Blood Brothers, Nicole Dollanganger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i posted a stozier oneshot if u like angst give it a read, it was inspired by the nicole dollanganger song ‘lemonade’ 
> 
> this chapter might be messy but at least ur getting content lmao enjoy

The first thing Stan notices about Richie in Biology the next day is how tired he looks. Black shadows under his eyes, the cigarette smell stronger, his eyes a murky green, shot through with gold and brown. The most concerning difference is the wicked bruise on his pretty cheekbone, wrapping around to his eyebrow, just missing his eye. His hair's even more tangled than usual, no makeup on, that cross on his neck, his uniform so careless, tie nearly undone. Stan wants to fix all of his messy edges, straighten him out, wash his hair for him and brush it while it's still wet, kiss at the shadows under his eyes, the bruise on his cheek, hold him until the trembling leaves his fingertips, until the roar of magic under his skin is burned away to nothing but a waving candle flame.

"Hey, Stanny." He throws a ball of paper across the room, like he needs to get his attention, his tired eyes getting brighter when Stan meets his gaze. "We're going on a field trip, after school."

“Mr. Tozier!” The nun at the front of the classroom, their teacher, snaps from her desk, steely eyes hard and cold. Stan doesn’t like the nuns, and they very clearly don’t like him. “I hate the interrupt your little… social gathering-”

Richie sits up straight, a huge, mocking grin spreading across his pale face, eyes still murky behind his glasses. “Sorry, Sister,” He does a little motion with his hands, something Stan can’t make out, and Bev bursts out laughing, Mike joins her. Richie glances over at him, with his multicoloured brownish eyes, and a certain softness to him he usually doesn’t have. Stan smiles, tucking a stray curl back into place, kicking his feet out, and considering his options. He doodles birds in the margin of his notebook, jays and crows and ravens, a magpie with shiny black eyes.

He will go with them, he’ll see Richie this afternoon. He gets Beverly’s attention, and nods, just once.

Her smile could have outshone the sun.

-

They ride the bus out of town, it’s the first time Stan has seen them all out of uniform. Beverly is in a lilac sundress with buttons down the front of it, a beaded bag, and a floppy straw hat. Mike is in a button up shirt and smart trousers, pressed into sharp lines. Richie is a whole spectacle, almost entirely black and covered in chains, big combat boots, and square, bright orange, reflective sunglasses. They’re so opaque Stan can’t make out his eyes behind them. He watches him wave at a little girl, smile, and fold a scrap of paper into something, his fingers are quick and clever, and it doesn’t take long until he’s holding a little, lemon-yellow origami crane. The girl smiles delightedly when he hands it to her, the very moment the bus grinds to a stop.

They stand, marching down the aisle in single file, the elderly man driving the bus giving them a careful look.

“You kids watch out for those weirdos.” He says, a kind smile on his face.

Richie turns, lowering his sunglasses to peer up at the bus driver with the greenest eyes Stan has ever seen, a wide smile spreading across his face, his curling, ink-black hair wild and bright in the sunlight. “We are the weirdos, mister.”

The doors slam shut, and the bus disappears down the road.

They wander through the wooded hills, searching for a sunlit clearing, bags on their backs. The sky is a clear, gorgeous blue above them, Stan can hear all kinds of birds twittering in the trees around them, little songbirds for the most part. He spots a brilliant spot of colour, a tree swallow, a male based on the bright cerulean feathers that catch in the sunlight. He stops in his tracks, bringing Richie’s attention to where Stan is staring, transfixed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just, a tree swallow, I haven’t seen one in a long time, I don’t know why.” He flushes red under Richie’s weighted stare, his eyes must be brilliant behind those sunglasses, because he can feel the steady thrum of his magic from here. “I go birdwatching a lot.”

Richie arches a black eyebrow, expressive and so pretty it hurts.

In truth, Stan hasn’t gone birdwatching in months. His mother used to take him, hold him in her arms, ever since he was small. When he was a toddler she would carry him into the woods with her, all honey hair and dry hands and the smell of jasmine. He can’t stand it after her death, the memories that come flooding through him are almost unbearable. He can almost imagine she’s here now, hiding behind a tree somewhere in the woods, playing a game, _hide-n-seek_, just out of reach, laughing and laughing while he searches, nails bloodying the palms of his hands, salt stinging his eyes until he’s blind and stumbling in the darkness, ripping at old wounds to draw blood, wanting nothing but to join her. Wanting nothing but his own death.

“Birdwatching?”

“I know, it’s stupid.” Stan forces a laugh, looking away from the tree swallow, at Mike and Bev’s retreating figures. “Come on.”

They wander for another ten minutes or so, tripping over roots and avoiding the occasional sections of poison ivy. The sun is warm on Stanley’s skin, he takes it in, looking up at the sun dappled green of the leaves above them, the peeking blue of the sky, the humming song of the birds in the trees. Despite the circumstances, it’s the most peaceful he’s felt in a while.

“Here.” Mike stops dead in his tracks, standing in an open shaft of sunlight, in a large, grassy clearing in the forest. There’s a short, gnarled tree near the spot he’s standing, he sets out his blanket at its edge, they prepare something while Stanley watches intently. He knows instinctively when to sit with them, and needs no instruction when the spell begins.

“_Earth, air, fire, water._” They chant in unison, holding hands around a candle, a glass of water, a scrap of linen, and a handful of dirt. He doesn’t know how he knows what to say, how he knows when to say it, it’s like the knowledge just appeared there without him noticing. “_Earth, air, fire, water. Earth, air, fire, water. Air, air, air. Fire, fire, fire. Water, water, water. Earth, earth, earth. Earth, air, fire, water._” Richie looks beautiful when he’s casting, eyes heavy lidded, cheeks rosy, eyebrows furrowed. He’s hopeless, he’s lost for that boy. “_Earth, air, fire, water._”

They drop hands, and all four of them stand.

Richie takes a long, silver knife out of his bag, looking particularly deadly in all his heavy black clothes, he’s got his sunglasses shoving back his curls, and he’s holding that knife like it’s meant for his hands. He gives it to Mike, who immediately levels it to Bev, and presses the tip of it against her throat.

“It is better you should rush upon this blade than enter the circle with fear in your heart.” His eyes are hard, he’s pressing the knife into her skin with enough force Stan can see the indent it’s making, a little more and she would get skewered. “How do you enter?”

Bev’s pale green eyes are soft, she isn’t scared at all. “With perfect love and perfect trust.”

Mike lowers the knife, and places it in Bev’s hands. As he does so, he presses a kiss to her mouth, she’s clearly expecting it, she kisses him too, just a chaste touch of lips.

She turns, and faces Richie, pressing the tip of the knife into his throat. “It is better you should rush upon this blade than enter the circle with fear in your heart.” Richie grins widely. “How do you enter?”

“With perfect love and perfect trust.” He had to lean down to kiss her, but they did the same thing Bev and Mike did, and before he realizes it, Stan can feel the cold tip of a blade pressing into his throat.

Richie’s eyes are a soft green, like leaves and grass and peppermint. He has a tiny, impish smile curling his lips.

“It is better you should rush upon this blade than enter the circle with fear in your heart.” He smiles like the devil, he’ll never forget that. “How do you enter?” He can’t seem to look away from him, lips parting, the words tumbling out almost before he decides to say them. 

“With perfect love and perfect trust.” Richie lowers the knife, and presses his lips to Stan’s.

Almost instantly Stan’s hand flies up to cradle his jaw, taking the knife with his other hand. They’re both putting too much into the kiss, more than anyone else did, mouths lingering, Richie’s hand on the base of his skull, his lips parting, his body moving to curl around his, his every touch full of strange intention. They kiss, and they kiss again, and again, and again, and again, little moments of drawing away and coming back, Richie’s lips are chapped, his hands are rough, he smells like sage and candle wax and cigarettes, and Stan wants him so badly he can taste it. Like bile. Like spit.

He leans away, holding the knife. Richie looks dazed, hands trembling slightly.

He takes the knife back from Stan, holding it in the sunlight, high above his head, ignoring Mike and Beverly and their wide eyed stares.

“As above,” He slams the tip of the knife into the ground. “So below.”

They settle on the blanket, sitting in a circle, stabbing a needle into the tips of their fingers. Stan digs his in farther than he should, and pulls at it until it’s gushing blood instead of dripping it. He watches it fall into the metal chalice they’re sharing, four hands fitting in enough space for one. They fill it the rest of the way with wine, sucking the blood off their fingers idly while they wait.

Mike takes the cup first, staring into it with contemplative brown eyes, he looks almost nervous, excited too.

“I drink of my sisters,” He pauses, clearing his throat. “And I ask for the ability to not hate those who hate me. Especially racist pieces of mullet wearing _shit_ like Henry Bowers.” Richie laughs, and Stan has to stifle a smile.

“Nice.” He stares into the bloody red wine, “I drink of my sisters, and I ask to love myself more... and to allow myself to be loved more by others. Even Ilene Tucker.” He takes a long sip, he can’t taste the blood, not really, but he can feel it, like a drink mixed with vodka, the flavour never goes away. He hands the cup to Beverly.

“I drink of my sisters, and…” She looks down, staring at her legs, at something he can’t see. “I take into myself the power to be beautiful, outside as well as in.” She takes a long sip, closing her eyes tightly, and handing the cup to Richie.

He stares into the red for too long, green eyes practically poisonous. “I drink of my sisters, and I take into myself… all the power of Manon.” He tips back his head, and drains the wine, drains the blood. A bit of it drips down his chin, he wipes it on his sleeve, grinning at the sky.

“That’s all?” Stan asks sarcastically, and Richie turns the most delicate shade of pink he’s ever seen, that impish smile lighting him up, touching his eyes.

“Blessed be.”

Stan, Mike and Bev all laughed a little. “Blessed be.”

“Blessed be.” Richie says again, that hot feeling of his magic on the air.

Suddenly, Mike’s eyes go wide. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Bev grabs his arm, and he lets her hold onto him.

“Look!” He points, and Stan sees what he was talking about.

What has to be a hundred butterflies drift lazily through the trees toward them. They’re every colour of the rainbow, what has to be a dozen different species, some of them land on Richie, the tip of his nose, his mess of curls. Stan laughs, a genuine laugh, a butterfly landing on his fingertip, Bev is gazing around them in wonder, Mike has them all over, his hair, his hands, his knees.

“It’s Manon.” She shakes her curls, and six of them take off around her, pink, blue, red, gold.

“It’s so beautiful.” Stan stares up at the sky, the trees, the butterflies all around them, that peaceful feeling spreading. He can feel it, just like Richie said in the store, his magic, a current of electricity under his skin. He looks for him in the haze, and his smile melts.

Richie isn’t laughing, he looks shaken, wide eyed with awe, his eyes skyward.

“He’s listening to us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> richie said: [ominous noises]

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed please let me know! Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated.


End file.
